I am deconstructing my dehydrated flowers to display them in an empty, glass tequila bottle. I am listening to ICAROS while tripping mushrooms in my room in Chicago, IL. I just laughed at the thought of reading this later. I don’t reflect on things enough anymore.
Sometimes, it’s good to just record. And watch the spaces fill themselves. Observation is life. Thought is quiet. Stillness is symphonic.
Editing is such an insecure task. It’s this idea of not wanting to sound like yourself, wanting to shape Earth into sculpture, but what’s more beautiful than Earth? It abounds, we’re just taking petals from the flower before they’re dead. When we edit, we’re questioning our own way of thought. We make ourselves the other. We make the self foreign.
I’m hungry.
The trip has gone over the Hill. Thoughts are beginning to coalesce once again, streams into rivers. I’m beginning to remember who I thought I was, and now who I want to be. It’s strong. It’s ancient. I can remember millennia past.
This will go un-edited. I have never done this before, complete stream of consciousness. I recognize the humor and satire in this. All the thoughts start with the Self. There’s a part of me that wishes the trip to be over, but this is foolish and fearful and irrational. I should hope to hold onto this, as I will long for these thoughts later. Do not delete yourself.
I miss profundity. I used to find it in everything. Now I am ashamed of its unabridged nature. I choose to dip in and out of its stream, shocked at how hot it is.
The trip is not over, and I am delighted. I think when I’m scared to trip, it’s because I think it’ll cause a disruption in my life. It’ll make me something I wasn’t before, and if I like that thing, I don’t want to lose it. But tripping helps me remember. That I was only that thing one time, a long time ago, and I’ve been a billion other things since.
I hope I read this tomorrow.
Just Writing 